* * * *
He stood
with his back to the fire, assuming a pose of authority in readiness to deal
with these guests. Best to let them know
right away that he was in charge. Unfortunately tonight, because of his wounded
wrist and the sling, he couldn't stand with both hands behind his back, only
one, but he made the best of it, head up and feet shoulder-width apart so that
he might rock on his heels as required. Yes, that was better. Normal, was it
not? As "normal" as he could be.
It had been
his intention to let Parkes handle the matter of his unwanted guests, but she
was nowhere to be found tonight, of course— practicing that typical feminine
skill of vanishing at the most inopportune moment.
So he was
left alone to handle his aunt when she swept into his study with her voice
already raised to soprano pitch. "Well, Henry, I have arrived, no thanks
to the state of the roads around here."
The damp and
drooping Miss Hathaway followed close behind her. Harry drew a deep breath and
was about to speak when Lady Bramley exclaimed, "Henry, what are you wearing? For goodness sake, put
some clothes on."
But he had
clothes on, didn't he? Yes. He looked down to be sure. Breeches, shirt. Not as
tidy as it should be, however—
"You
will remember my companion, perhaps," she added, too impatient to wait for
Harry to adjust his garments. "This is Miss Georgiana Hathaway of the
Particular Establishment for the Advantage of Respectable Ladies."
"How
could I fail to remember?" he muttered, looking again at the young woman
beside his aunt. She was, in fact, impossible to forget, although he had
suffered a momentary confusion at seeing her suddenly appear outside his window.
"The Wickedest Chit that ever breathed air."
Her eyes,
he noted today, were fringed with such a preponderance of ebony lashes that
they looked heavy. Centipedinous eye
lashes, he mused, inventing the word on the spot, as was his tendency when
nothing in existence suited.
"Henry."
Who? What?
"Henry!"
His gaze
swept left and slightly downward to take in the sight of his aunt's round face.
"Madam?"
"Henry,
tuck your shirt in and put on a jacket. We're going to eat dinner."
"Not hungry."
He looked around the room again, wishing Parkes might reappear and manage the
situation in her usual way. Where the
devil was she? "You can't stay," he blurted. Deliberately not looking at the woman with
all the eyelashes again, he finally remembered to rock on his heels as
previously planned. Ah, that was better. He regained command over his own vessel,
no matter how distracting this stowaway's eyelashes. "There's
been a mistake, you see. I haven't anywhere suitable to put you. The house
isn't equipped for females, we're infested with mice and the roof leaks like a
colander. Sorry, but there it is."
Parkes abruptly
whispered in his ear, "Surely your aunt can take your mother's old
bedchamber— which is the least drafty and most comfortable for her health— and
her companion can make use of your father's room in the east wing, until
something else might be arranged. A fire can be lit in there now that Brown took
that old nest out of the chimney. And it's got a pleasant view across the park.
I daresay the young lady would like the sunrise when she wakes in the morning."
Suddenly Parkes
wanted to be helpful? She certainly picked her moments. He glared over his
shoulder. "Don't you have other duties to tend?"
She was all
smiles. A very rare occurrence and indicative of mischief afoot. "Oh, it
won't take long to air the beds and knock down a few cobwebs."
"Henry!"
His aunt's voice drew his attention back to her again. "What's the matter
with you? What are you looking at? Where are your manners?"
Did he ever
have any manners? He couldn't remember.
But as he
turned back to his guests, he noticed that a few drops of rainwater had fallen
off Miss Hathaway and landed in fat splotches on his drawings, which were spread
out across the floor. She was smudging the charcoal, he thought anxiously. Ten
minutes after her arrival and his work was endangered already.
"Are
you quite all right, Commander?" the young menace inquired.
"All right?"
he sputtered. "Of course, I'm all right. Not that it's any of your damned
business."
"Henry!"
"I
won't get in your way, sir. I am eager to learn under your aunt's tutelage and
to make recompense for all the destruction I caused at her garden party. To
make amends for anything I did to you also, of course, sir."
Anything she did to him? What had she done
to him now? Harry ran a quick mental assessment of all his body parts and
was relieved to find them intact. Stirring, in fact, with vigor.
"Your
aunt intends to make me into a lady," she added, a slightly mischievous
spark under her lashes. "I am not to slide down banisters anymore."
"Excellent,"
he muttered. "That should be a relief to gentlemen everywhere. The fewer
flying backsides there are about the place the better."
"Henry,
be polite," his aunt exclaimed. "We're here now, and we're staying
for a month. Perhaps longer. Now that I see the state of the house, I have a
better idea of all the work to be done. I shall send for some staff tomorrow. I
suggest you acclimate yourself to the idea of ladies in the house. I know you
haven't had one about for many years. But it's time, Henry."
He looked
down at the wet footprints left by Miss Hathaway's walking boots. Then his
perusal ascended slowly over her muslin frock, only to be delayed in its
progress by her softly rounded bosom— never to be mentioned, of course— until
his gaze fumbled its way upward to that dimple in her cheek. He found her lips pursed
up like a tight rosebud. Her eyes squinted hard under those abundant lashes. Trying
to puzzle him out, perhaps. He wished her luck with that.
She would
not be the first to try and fail.
A drop of
rainwater had fallen from her chin to her bosom and dampened the lace
chemisette, making it stick to her skin, enticingly transparent. There was a
tiny mole at the base of her throat, visible beneath the ivory lace. In the old
days, folk used to call them witches marks, he thought darkly. Could that be
why freckles were now considered an unforgiveable flaw?
Reaching for
the mantle behind him with his left hand, he missed, knocking a small china figurine
to the hearth rug. He ignored it and his fingers, fumbling blind, finally found
the ledge they sought.
"Do as
you wish then," he said tersely, back in control. "But you stay at
your own risk and don't assume I'll change the way I do things just for the two
of you."
Miss Hathaway
still watched him quizzically, her eyes a warm chestnut shade with just a
twinkle of bronze. Her broom-like lashes looked wet. Perhaps that was why he
was drawn to staring at them. It was as if they'd been dusted with tiny
crystals and each time she blinked the firelight was caught there, reflected in
miniature prisms of rainwater.
Harry had
begun to suffer the tickling of sweat under his clothes. It felt as if he was
back on that tropical island, under the midday heat of a bright sun. Hooking a finger
around his neck-cloth, which was already partly undone, he tugged it looser
still.
"You are ill," his aunt declared.
"You look hot, Henry." She stepped forward and tried to reach his
forehead, but he slipped smartly aside and, having a good two feet on her in
height, he escaped her questing hand. "You're breathing very hard."
"Breathing?
How dare I breathe. I shall stop at once."
"And
perspiring in a most uncivilized manner."
"I am
perfectly well. I have an excellent constitution. I wouldn't be alive now if I
didn't, would I? Breathing helps with that, perhaps you have not noticed."
Parkes
coughed, once again interrupting. "We'll see to the rooms then, shall we?"
"If we
must," he grunted.
"If we
must what?" his aunt demanded.
"Good afternoon
to you both. Please enjoy your dinner without me. As you see, I'm busy." He'd
looked at Miss Hathaway and her dangerous eyelashes long enough, he decided. He
wanted her out of his study, and himself out of this sticky shirt, as soon as
possible. "Shoo."
With his
good hand he flung the door open and waited for the unwanted guests to leave
him in peace again. A welcome draft of cooling air swept in from the passage,
and he felt his pulse ease to a steadier trot.
"Dear
Henry." His aunt paused to pat his cheek on the way out. "Lovely to
see you, as always. Now I am here and all will be well. I told you I'd bring my
own entertainment, didn't I? But do let Brown give you a shave, won't you?
There is something of the Norse pirate about your appearance and that will not
do for a Thrasher. We're not rampaging, ravaging pagan raiders."
"Perhaps
not now," he muttered darkly.
Want to read on?
THE TROUBLE WITH HIS LORDSHIP'S TROUSERS out now from all e-book retailers and soon to be in print from Amazon!
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(Picture - Young Lady in a Boat by James Tissot)
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